


Thicker Than Holy Water

by plushrumpx (TwinklePark)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Demonstuck, M/M, NaNoWriMo, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5136203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinklePark/pseuds/plushrumpx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the barrel of cold steel presses against your temple, a trickle of sweat slides down your neck, further pronouncing the goosebumps that are beginning to form on your chained arms, and all you can think is that you never asked for this. You never asked for any of this to happen.<br/>-<br/>Dirk Strider is a demon hunter who has been trying to eliminate the deadly threat against humanity for three years. But now, Jake English has thrown a wrench in Dirk's plans, and confuses everything the hunter knows about himself, the demon menace, and even his family. He has some changes to make before he can exact his revenge, but thanks to Jake, he might just have the means to exact it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that while I don't do graphic gore/violence, there will be some dark tones. I'm also a pretty secretive author, so if you need a story that details every plot twist/surprise in the tags, you won't find that here. If that is just fine by you, please proceed. :) If not, keep yourself safe and happy by returning to the database to find another fic. Thanks everyone!

As the barrel of cold steel presses against your temple, a trickle of sweat slides down your neck, further pronouncing the goosebumps that are beginning to form on your chained arms, and all you can think is that you never asked for this. You never asked for any of this to happen.

There's no room for you to break free – no momentum to be gained. And as if the tension in your arms wasn't enough, Jake twists his fingers into your hair, digging at your scalp. Your neck is arched at an uncomfortable angle, so you're forced to meet his eyes. They're poisonous darts, able to intoxicate anyone with just a look. You're the exception. And he hates you for it.

It isn't like you haven't considered letting yourself go in darker lapses of judgement, but your personality is unshakable. Insuppressible. You've tried.

You're trapped here, his long lecture a prison for your mind in the same way your bed frame binds you to the floor, legs crumpled from exhaustion. For all the kicks and punches you landed on the bastard, he looks pristine as he talks on to his satisfaction. You'd _like_ to say he's been speaking for so long you've tuned him out, that his threatening monologue has drained your interest to the point that it all melds together in one extended, foggy note at the back of your mind; but if you _did_ , you'd be lying. Every last ill-boding dogma and statement of superiority has been absorbed, and you're starting to think he's serious this time. He's done fucking around. There's no more cat and mouse, just cat, and the mouse is caught under claw and teeth and the crushing weight of something overwhelmingly huge - bigger than you can begin to fight against. Than you can even fathom. He's telling you things that are critical to how his society works, and it's infinitely larger than you knew. If you thought you could take them out, you were misled. You were mistaken. That much has never been more clear to you than it is now.

He tightens his grip and you grit your teeth, fighting down a noise that pushes against the wall of your throat. He leans in, that ridiculous swoop of black hair eclipsing the overhead light. You've seen him this predatory before. Just once. You try not to remember. You'll be damned to hell yourself if that's the last thought you have before you die.

You look to the sunglasses on your desk for a distraction. You wonder what _he's_ thinking. If he is trying to save you. If he's scared for your own existence as he claims to be for his own.

In the corner of your vision, Jake's finger shifts.

You meet his eyes again to find them cold. The gunshot blasts in your ear, and it's the last thing you hear before everything ceases to exist.

* * *

 

You awaken in what looks like a waiting room. The room itself is cramped, with walls closing in on all sides, and the heavy black chairs that line the perimeter make the space feel even more constricting around you. You lift your head from the basin of your palms, where they've propped you up by your knees. You find yourself hunched over, as though you've only nodded off.

You don't remember how you got here.

As you drink in the royal pinks and purples of the room, with a gold ceiling and velvet furniture, you think this might be either the weirdest clinic you've been in, or the consulting office for an especially gaudy prostitution ring. Some of the decor in here might be tasteful if it weren't so obviously fake. Namely anything with a coat of gold acrylic. Even the plants in the corner look more authentic, and you can be certain coral and seaweed doesn't come in those colors of hot pink and crisp teal and white.

A muffled, feminine voice pierces the silent hum of the room, attracting your attention to the door. "The new recruit is in there!"

_Recruit?_

That begs more questions to follow, but before you can spare them your two cents, a demon with a maliciously luminous grin bursts through the door, swinging against the wood by what looks like a dangerous grip on the door. "Hey buoy."

Unlike the furnishings, her gold is authentic. You're sure of it. Her excess of earrings and bangles complete the look she's trying for, a sort of flashy upper class punk style. If she isn't coordinated to match the room, it's coordinated to match _her_. She wears black, wide-leg jeans that make her form smaller in comparison, but no less threatening. She has warm, gray skin and vibrant magenta lips. Fins flare out near her jawline, ornate and dotted with more of the same fuchsia that accents her wardrobe. No humanoid glamour from what you can tell. She's a troll, alright, and the real deal.

She reeks of demonic power.

You're incredulous. You're angry. You're ready to fight for your life. Somehow you _survived Jake English_ , and you're not about to go down now.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, you're one of us now." Condescension punctuates her words, and you realize that with all the tension coiled in your shoulders and arms, you could probably punch the smugness right out of her voice.

You don't know what she's talking about. You have nothing in common with her, or trolls, or demons to any degree. Nevertheless, dread pits a hole in your insides. You realize belatedly that your mouth is  _too full_ , that something isn't right. Tentatively, you test your tongue against the offensively large canines behind your closed lips. They're long; and when you reach the tip, you find that they are also incredibly, nauseatingly sharp. You still in your seat, brow creasing with awareness.

So you didn't survive Jake, after all.

She catches your movement, permeating the room with her thick smugness. "Ah, you see? Got no room to talk with all them sharkteeth in your mouth. Been waiting on you a long time."

"A long time." You echo hollowly, sizing up your situation. _What the fuck is going on?_ How is this possible, and what does it mean? You hold your head steady, looking to her for answers.

"Yeah, we knew you was on your way, just not when. You gave English a run for his gills, that's for certain." The demon smirks, planting her hand on her hip to lean against the doorway. She seems aggravatingly amused.

"Why am I here?" You shift, too, keeping your gaze locked on her. If she moves, you'll be on your feet in a split second. You're itching to fight her, even if you doubt you could take down a troll without your sword. Uneven odds never stopped you before.

"Needed a new recruit." She makes it sound obvious, simple. "You cold, brutal, sharp, cunning, and deadly. You suit the job perfectly."

"What job?" you demand. "If you think I'm killing any humans--"

She cuts you off with a dismissive wave. "Relax, nofin' like that. You got two jobs laid out for you. One," she holds up a finger. You notice the manicured nail that could just as easily be called a claw, "you'll be cullin' any low class, young demons who step out of line. Reel rowdy school of guppies. Two," another finger accompanies the first, "you'll work here at the brothel for me. But that's optional. It ain't no fun to them if it ain't no fun for you, spikes."

You give a dull look at the nickname. Dave called you that once. Not that it was especially creative. You decide to ignore the insinuations behind Offer Number Two. You're aware that your special interests make you a target for that line of commentary, and you're not in the mood to argue with it. "You're asking me to kill demons."

"Someone's gotta." She has an excellent point. You agree whole-heartedly that demons should be destroyed. "And you got experience doin' it." Another fair point, but you're hardly convinced.

The nameless woman seems to know this, and continues. "It's the same thing you always done, but easier. You don't gotta worry 'bout getting hurt anymore. It's simple: even if you get stabbed, just bust in their skull, heal yourself, and go home for the day." She sounds bored. Maybe you're just not reacting enough for her to get off anymore. What a _bummer_.

"I'll be going home?" You try not to sound hopeful. You don't want to feed the troll, so to speak.

"Not like you thinkin'," her answer is quick. "You can't live on Earth. You need Derse's energy. If you stay out there too long, you'll start needing to eat every day just to keep alive, and I don't gotta spell out for you those fangs ain't for looks."

 _Fuck_. So much for your vegetarian lifestyle. You don't think you need elaboration on this particular point, but you push on, anyway. You need everything concrete. "I have to drink blood."

"Eventually."

That's more than you feel like you can handle. You've seen what demons do when they feed. You've seen them slaughter humans like cattle. You've seen them drag innocent victims into dark alleys and corners and bedrooms and you've seen the life fading from their victim's eyes. You've been bitten yourself once before, and you could barely stand on your own two feet the day after. You don't want this. You don't want to become predatory monsters like them. "And if I refuse?" you ask, a glimmer of defiance in your chest.

"You've seen a demon who starved herself before. Bitch didn't learn her lesson, still trying that pacifish bullshit."

Her tone is so bitter, you cant help but garner dark amusement. You know just who she means- another troll you had to take out yourself. She was desperate for blood. Furthermore, she was dangerous. "Friend of yours?"

"Sister."

Of course. "I see the resemblance." She curls her lip at you. You decide to drop it: siblings are a sore spot for you, too. "So what do I do now?"

"You wait on Jake to get here. Common courtesy for a guy who recruits a demon to show him the ropes."

Your confidence wavers. Jake took you as a personal rival. Everything between you is stained with black, violent feelings. With hatred and broken noses and bloody knuckles. And now, with death.

When you speak, you try to reason with her carefully. "I tried to destroy him. Why would he bring me here? I could just kill him even more easily now."

It seems she was expecting your sentiment, because her reply is easy. "Says you got a fin for him." She shrugs. Your brows arch. "And that look on your face says he's right." You lower them immediately. Her grin is back. You want to pull out each of her teeth.

"He killed me." That should be enough evidence for her, as far as you're concerned. You aren't interested in someone who deems you that expendable.

She rolls her eyes behind her cat rim glasses. "The only way to marry a human is to krill 'em first. Otherwise, it just isn't compatible. You'd still wind up dead. Sucked bone dry." Marriage with your murderer isn't exactly your priority, but you don't tell her that.

You do have one more question for her, however. "How do you know so much about me?"

The proud, self-satisfied expression returns, and she stands tall, rocking away from the doorframe. "Look, I got stuff to attend to." She turns her back to you, and you can see just how long her twin braids are. They trail from the nape of her neck down into the floor, and pool there like black silk. When she moves, they flow like braided leather whips. Fitting for her venomous personality. "If you need anything, you just let  _someone else_  know." She tells you, glancing back just once. With a sharp sparkle in her eye, she adds, "I'm a busy woman, you see."

The door shuts, and for the next half hour, you're alone.


	2. Entente

When the door opens next, you're pouring through a thick book you found tucked under one of the corner tables. You're ordinarily good with language. Damn good, at that. But you don't think you've so much as _seen_ this one before. It makes sense that demons have their own language, or languages, perhaps. The characters that make up the writing (alphabet? syllabary? pictographic system?) touch your mind in a way that makes you believe you could read it if you tried hard enough. You presume that it's due to some brand of magic you're unfamiliar with. The effect it has on you is enough to keep you distracted for a long time.

Naturally, you do consider leaving. Figuring shit out on your own. To say that you are sore with Jake is spot-on, and you do not look forward to his company. Immediately after the troll with all the absurd, nautical-sea puns walked out on you, you ripped the door open to have your final word, and she was gone. A gilded water fountain was all that greeted you in the dimly lit hallway, and to either side of you, rows of doors, open passages, and more fake plants lined the walls. Something felt intense out there, tantalizingly alluring, silky-dark like ribbons of chocolate. It was then you shut the door again, focusing on inspecting your assigned wait room instead of whatever you _smelled_ outside.

Now that the door is open, you sense it again, and you raise your head to find Jake stepping inside. “Hello, love,” he says politely, with his small, gray corkscrew horns revealed. His wings are too big for this tiny room and he keeps them tucked away, but you've seen them, too. Enormous, creamy white, feathered things, misleadingly angelic. The lock clicks. You narrow your eyes.

He plays up the innocence, as expected, face treated with as many endearing qualities he can muster against someone unaffected by his tricks. When he spots your expression, his response is artificially gentle, “Now, what's that face about?”

“You shot me,” you tell him, voice void of sympathy for his act. At first he looks surprised, but you relax your features, unamused. He knows he shot you. You know he shot you. He knows you know, and if he thinks you're not familiar with this game, this motherfucker is sorely wrong, because you reinvented the game of bullshitting as a three-by-nine-inch, thirteen-year-old asshole encased in plastic shades, and Jake's got nothing on your own, artificial, over-clocked brain clone that resides within those insufferable, triangular lenses.

His bluff called, Jake decides to drop it. He smiles, pleased. “You're welcome.” Then, his tone changes, and you're up against his flirtatious side in record time, “You've got such remarkable eyes in this state. Have you taken a gander?”  
  
You glare harder at him.  
  
“Let me see your fangs,” he requests, pretending to be humble. You're still not buying it, even as he tacks on, “I bet they suit you handsomely.” His lips pull warmly. You refuse to look at them.

“No.” You will not be suckered into this so easily. The troll woman might know a thing or two about how you feel, but you're no pushover. Jake has had an infinite number of strikes. He doesn't deserve to be cut an ounce of slack.

He pouts, “Come on.”

“Fuck off.”

“Please?" There goes the head-tilt. You expected it sooner or later. "After all the trouble I went through to keep you.” You feel your lip curling in frustration. His eyes hone in on the sliver of hope that you'll draw it back further for him to see. When he doesn't look away, you throw him a bone, baring your teeth in a scowl. His green eyes glisten with excitement. “Oh, they _are_ good-looking.” Something about Jake has always felt puppylike to you, throwing you off through his dangerous demonology. Always the least-expected facet of his personality, and bizarrely the most authentic.

Having done him a favor, you decide to get the answers you seek while he's still in high spirits. “So this is what happens when a demon kills someone?”

“Not just anyone!” Jake doesn't appear interested in deflecting, and now that you think of it, he wasn't the last time you saw him, either. Granted, he had every intention of killing you then, the reservation that you had begun to associate with him is absent. You guess it has a lot to do with the fact that you're no longer human. “Only those chosen specifically. Those who are truly worthwhile.” You can't tell if he's serious, or if he's laying it on thick. He's good with compliments, and he figured you out a long time ago, but you're hardly romanced by the bullet he put through your brain.

“I'm not flattered yet,” you warn him.

The curve of his lips flatters _him_ , though, as he continues. “Ordinarily, you would be drained of blood and energy until the inevitable happened.” Unthreatening as his explanation sounds, the suggestion that he could have killed you is distinct. “Rarely, terminated out of self-defense. Or just murdered, as I'm sure you've seen, under classless circumstances.” He's right. A demon hunter like yourself bears witness to a lot of carnage, and you are intimately familiar with the death of others. Just the same, none of this is making you feel any better about what he's done to you. “In each of these cases, they cease to exist or are given a nice home in a suitable soulbank until a demon's ready to retire.”

“To be consumed later?” you sneer. That's what you fear most.

“That's the ticket.”

He says it so casually that you know it's the truth. You feel your gut clench. “That answers my questions about mortality,” you reply.

“But not all your questions,” he concludes, brows raised.

“Not even the tip.”

“I could give you much more than the tip.”Jake grins, seductive energy forming his posture. You can read it in the rise of his shoulders and the angle of his hips. It's a promise. He wants to corner you and make you surrender, you suspect, but if he's trying to plant any ideas, his magic doesn't penetrate your brain.

You don't even blink. You're used to him by now. You avert your eyes, illustrating indifference. “Clever. Keep talking.”

“You might recall when I bit you,” he trails off expectantly, taking the seat next to you.

“I remember.” He knows you do. You can't forget.

“I thought you might.” The lustful spark is stronger now, and his arm weighs down your chair as he invades your space. “You were very eager. Do you have recollection of that as well?" You shoot him a warning look. "That's because I gave you a little part of me, Strider. I allowed you to share in my existence.”

You challenge him with your gaze. “Damning me to this.”

Jake laughs. “If that's how you choose to phrase it. Now that you're here, you could always give me a piece of you.”

“Five star innuendo.”

He huffs near your ear. “I mean you can return the favor exactly,” Jake says, sounding exhausted by your banter. “Just one bite. Your first feeding, and you can exchange it with some of your own energy. I'd enjoy it just as much as you did.”

There it is. There's his confession. Meaning you're still in the lead simply by knowing what he's getting at, in spite of everything he's done to you. “In that case, I'll pass.”

He pouts again, something you haven't seen him do in ages before today. “You're not very grateful.”

“I didn't sign up for this. I never wanted _any_ of this,” you resist the bitterness in your voice, but it chokes you and spills from your lips, ending in bared fangs and clenched fists.

Jake is unmoved, but he speaks now as though he is addressing a child. “If I didn't think I could change your mind, I would have taken you out months ago. You never stood a chance against me as you were. Besides, now you can do the same thing you always have done, but with far greater resources available to you.”

“If I don't?” you flash him again with the same anger you showed when he entered the room.

“You'll let the hooligans run free in a state of anarchy. Humans will die. Some slowly. Some painfully. Some in front of their lovers. Some in front of their mothers. Dare I say, in front of their brothers? Tackling this job means everyone wins. You'll be helping us and the humans altogether. Refusing means everyone loses. But I won't make the decision for you. It's ultimately yours, dearest Dirk.”

But it isn't. It never was. He knows his way around your conscience, and he knows why you began hunting to begin with. There is no other answer.

He pretends to wait for your decision.

You want to _punch_ him.

Somehow, you control your urges.

“... Fine,” you fold the cover of the foreign book and put it away, avoiding his eyes. “Tell me what I have to do.”


	3. Four Years

You first met Jake at a billiards bar, where he crushed you so swiftly and surprisingly well, you had to approach him as he sat, triumphantly enjoying the drinks you and the other players would be covering for the night. Ordinarily, you went home with enough change to feed yourself for the week, but that night you watched each dollar sink into the corner pockets, rather than your own. You'd never lost a game of pool, and he had you fascinated.

“You pro?” you asked, propping your heels up on the stool as you settled in at the bar, ordering a soda. Even if you were too young to drink now, alcohol didn't exactly appeal to you for a variety of reasons, and you doubted the situation would change in the coming year.

He laughed, boisterous and bright, and placed his matching orange garnish on the rim of your glass when it arrived, instantly engaging you in more ways than one. “Not remotely. Am I that good?” You couldn't place his accent.

“I mean,” you glanced to the table you played against him, where a crowd of rowdy regulars had taken your places, “you toasted us pretty hard, dude.”

“Oh,” his smile caught your eye, and not for the first time. Sure, you _had_ been checking him out back there under the harsh overhead light, through the tobacco smog and the glare from the silver frame of the table; but now that his interest in you potentially matched your own, you felt the thrum of the ambient bass more strongly in the space under your ribs. “I hope I didn't take your rent.”

“No,” you looked back at the bartender as she entertained a small crowd with a special order of rainbow drinks. The party of four leaned in close to one another, laying claim to each shot as it bloomed into a unique color. You'd seen the trick before, but not here. It must be someone's birthday.

“That's a shame,” he snapped your attention to himself again, “I would have offered you my bed.” And then he _winked,_ so smooth, so cocksure. He leaned his weight on the mahogany to face you halfway, fixing you with a loaded smirk.

You balked.

“Wow,” you started, legitimately taken aback that things had taken such a turn so quickly. Part of you was disappointed that he was that kind of guy, but your reputation around here couldn't be much different on the surface. You weren't exactly the Prince of Subtlety. “That one work for you?”

“Well, I've yet to rend anyone homeless," he defended, "but I like to think I'm not so sorry to use it on someone who's recently lost their lodgings, if that's what you mean.”

“Just everyone else.”

Again, he laughs, seemingly filled with glee. “Goodness gracious, you're a grim fellow. If I'd known you'd take it so fully to heart, I wouldn't have said it. Would you accept my apology? My flirtations and humor can be off-color at times.”

He seems sincere enough that you nod. “No big.” Maybe you were being quick to judge. You try not to fulfill your destiny as the resident wet blanket, but sometimes prophecies come true.

“Jake English,” you shake the hand he offers, and his grip is firm-but-not-forced, solidly confident. “I'm new to Houston.”

“Dirk Strider.”

“Strider? What a name! Quite some character to it.” Thinking of your brother, the only other person you know of that shares the name, you had to agree. Character sounded _exactly_ right.

“You could say that.”

“Well then, Strider. Do you like movies?”

–

At his request, you went to the late night showing for Batman. You love the shit out of Batman, even if he had no idea. There's a certain respect you hold for a vigilante dude who takes out threats to civilian well-being without the need for a gun, manages to see the redeeming qualities and humanity of his foes, and still has mad fashion sense. Not that you're totally biased towards the color black. You're not to blame for recognizing the immutable fact that it looks good on absolutely everyone. You are 100% without-a-doubt objective in your observations.

You wondered if Jake just wanted a friend along for the evening, but he planted his hand firmly on your chest, holding you at arm's length while he paid for both your tickets - as if he detected your sense of pride from miles away. He wasn't wrong, and you slipped inside before he had the chance, placing a couple of twenties on the concession counter. By the time he realized what happened, your orders were taken, and the employee flipped out your cash to cover the expenses. Jake's look of betrayal was utterly worthwhile.

He refused to back down on the gentlemanly act, however. On the way into the dark theater, he held the door open for you, and, later, on the way out to the parking lot when the movie was over. It wasn't until then that you turned around and caught the glimmer of your belt buckle in the reflection on the glass.

You were wearing your Batman belt.

A grin broke his face. “Did I cheat?”

“You almost got away with it,” you said, but you had to admit: At every turn, Jake had successfully impressed you.

Not an easy feat.

He took you home. Your apartment was a walk from the bar, but a sizable drive from the theater. He parked and cut the engine, and you grabbed his wrist right as he reached for the door handle.

When Jake looked to you for answers, you removed your shades and leaned in. Your motives were clearly written in your eyes. You made sure of it.

You kissed in his car for a long time. How long, you were never really sure. Being with Jake distracted you from your phone, from compulsive time-checking, from the projects awaiting you at home. Kissing Jake floated your responsibilities miles away, where they lost all significance. His hands were daring, exploratory. Wickedly entrancing. Your only regret _then_ had been your inability to reach his ass. It looked fantastic in those shorts, and your goal was to get a handful, if only once. Something about Jake made you desperate to be more spontaneous, less calculating, to get what you wanted, rather than what was best.

And you could do it. This wasn't so bad. It was great, actually. Fucking amazing.

You almost climbed across the console into his lap when a bright billboard down the street flashed the time, and the spell was broken.

“Fuck,” you whispered into his lips, backing away. “I have work due in the morning.”

Jake held you in by your waist and the nape of your neck, forcing another kiss. You struggled with yourself to turn it down, but you couldn't. Jake knew what he was doing. You kissed back, heart thrumming an excited number whenever he changed pace.

You broke a second time, swallowing your guilt. “Sorry. Things are really tight.”

“I'll say,” he agreed, and you sighed, adjusting yourself.

“I mean that timewise. I gotta take care of some commissions. That shit won't make itself. You can come up and sleep if you're not up for driving home, but I won't be tucking you in, sorry to say. I've got a--”

“Dirk,” he said, hands framing your face. He looked you dead in the eye, with a gaze so sharp and sincere and expectant. You waited for him to finish whatever he was going to say. Seconds ticked away. Minutes, even. He looked more intense, confused perhaps. The words never came.

“Uh,” you looked back at the billboard when the numbers popped up again. Three minutes had passed. “As much as I like catering to your weird staring-into-my-soul fetish here, I really gotta split.”

Jake released you, and you backed out of the car.

“You coming in?” you offered a final time, dipping your head into the cab.

“I'm good to drive.” He looked dejected. You hated yourself.

“You'll call. Right?” You _wanted_ to make it up to him. You wanted _him_ to know you wanted to make it up to him. He lifted his head to watch your eyes, studying you.

“If that's what you wish,” it took him a moment to respond.

You nod, dropping your glasses back onto your face. “I'm not rejectin' you, bro. I'm just a busy dude. Can I text?”

Jake smiled again at last, and you felt your chest relax. “I'm looking forward to it.”

And that night, four years ago, so were you.


	4. Panic

You've had a panic attack before.

You recall the details in distinct technicolor, despite the way the puzzle pieces themselves assembled to form a murky gray mass with violent, angry splatters of white and cold, colorless slashes of black. Claustrophobia was the most pronounced symptom, the one you were most immediately aware of experiencing. You remember standing from your computer desk with sudden desperation, stumbling, scratching, clawing your way to the rooftop. The crash of scattered artifacts in your apartment only tightened the ominous grip of _something wrong_ on your shoulders and in your spine. Each sound met the heightened sensitivity of your ears like the disruptive blast of an M80, every footstep in the narrow stairwell became your screaming mind.

You never made it up to the roof, but you remember how you blamed yourself. How overdramatic you felt when the shaft grew too dark to see. The spots that clouded your vision would go away if only you'd control your accelerated, shallow breathing, you reasoned. You were forced through a suffocating pinhole, crushed by your own body and mind as you tried to reconnect with the world. Your anger with yourself only isolated you further, and you gripped the railing until your fingers turned cold and pale without circulation. Until you could feel the ground again supporting you. Until you could drag the weight of your body, exhausted and mute, back to your room for a restless sleep.

Everything outside of that tiny waiting room washes you in deja vu, and it isn't until you reach a lobby on the bottom level of the building that you begin to figure out what it reminds you of.

From the moment you stepped out into the hallway, for lack of a better description, you were aware of everything. Or at the very least, aware of too much. Emotions struck you loudly from all sides, a wordless, meaningless, deafening roar that you could smell, hear, feel, taste, and see. And yet, none of those senses were directly affected. You have no words for how you feel even now, and the cacophonous wail of agony and lust, hatred and sorrow, pleasure and pride is starting to take its toll on you.

You followed Jake in silence throughout his tour of the facility. He can tell you're not listening, and his words taper out. He looks at you, patient. You say nothing. You think you might have ripped the seam open on your shirt from where you've knotted the cloth into your fingers.

For all that you're worth, you resist expressing any of the sensations you're up against, even as they barricade you inside your head and compress your chest. Your lungs are smaller than you know they should be, and you feel every possible emotion at once, though the most prominent is anger.

Jake pushes the front door open to lead you outside. The thunderous barrage of _everything wrong_ increases exponentially. You grip the steel bar on the door, and your eyes widen at the world before you.

The demon land is a sprawling, metropolitan nightmare. It's bigger than Jake's words could have described for you. It looks no different from Houston or Los Angeles or New York in scale and function, but the endless sea of violet sears your retinas. It's too much, too ultra-violet, too neon, too everything, and your vision swims with dark blotches that erase away pieces of the scene.

“Strider,” Jake's concern is bland and cotton-dry in your mouth. You spit an insult, but you don't know if it came out right at all.

You feel his hand on your arm, and honestly, you don't have time for this.

You've wanted to punch him this entire time, so you do it. You throw all of your weight into the blow, dealing as much damage to his loathsome face as you can with your bare hands. He stumbles back to look at you, lip punctured by his own sharp teeth. You wanted to do more than that, but his surprise is satisfying, even if the taste of his confusion nauseates you.

“You're hyperventilating, Strider,” his voice isn't remotely pained, and it makes you even angrier.

But he's right, and you can't catch your breath. You're still clinging to the door handle for balance. Everything continues to happen at once, bludgeoning you with shock-joy-rage-anxiety-love-wonderment.

“You have to breathe, Dirk.” This time he smells like fear. That's not what you want. You want to wring his neck. You want to make him angry. You want him to hate you.

“Dirk.” His voice is firm, but far away. Your ears are a infinitely shrill siren, torturing you with the worst headache you've had in your entire life.

You want to throw up.

You tuck your head between your legs, and dry heave.

A laborious sigh makes it through the wall of thunder, and Jake's at your side again, patting your back. Several people pass, and you figure you look like a hungover mess. Can demons have hangovers? You haven't a clue. Before you give it too much more thought, you slide down to the pavement, and Jake nudges you over to the side of the door, out of the pathway.

He crouches in front of you, effectively closing off much of your line of sight. “As much as I'd love to let you take a time out right here, I suspect you're in dire need of privacy. You have to get up.”

You push a groan through your lips, and scowl at his boots.

“Up you get,” you think you hear, and then you're being lifted back to your feet. He walks you a short distance to a parking lot, helps you into a car, and gets into the driver's side. The car drowns out some of the sounds and rotten smells. It's only now that you discover your trembling hands. You hold onto a crease in the thighs of your loose jeans, watching the way your palms set wrinkles into the denim. Your blood pressure seems low. You're barely able to hold up your head with all of the pressure building inside of it, and when Jake turns onto the street, it spills heavy into the pit of your gut, leaving you swimming and light-headed.

Wherever he's taking you, you can't get there fast enough. Every brake, every curve in the road, every idle vibration of his car makes you feel sicker. You shouldn't trust him. Yet, you couldn't fight him if you tried. So you let him drive you away from the screaming, incoherent nonvoices that dominate your every thought.

The building is a three-story brownstone – or it would be if it were brown. Indigo is as close as you can care to describe the color right now, and that much is impressive.

The climb up the stairs is thankfully short, and when he closes the front door, you're left with mostly nothing except Jake and his relief. You make a straight line for the crimson couch. Jake shuffles behind you with his arms out, as if you, Dirk Strider, would dare collapse. You feel like you might. You reach the sofa and sink into it, glaring into the floor.

“Where are we?”

Jake is silent. You look at him. He seems to be studying you. You repeat your question.

“This is your new home, at least for now.” You notice he's no longer bleeding. His lip healed right up in the time it took him to drive you a few blocks. “What was that?”

You don't want to answer him, exactly. He doesn't need to know everything there is about you. At the same time, you aren't really in the mood for him deciding you need to visit some sort of doctor or whatever demons go to when they're dry heaving in the streets. So you tell him. “Panic attack.”

“Panic attack,” he repeats in disbelief.

“Yes.”

He doesn't look like he's buying it. You're not, either. Whatever the fuck just took over your head left you feeling void and numb from the inside out. You're positive that any hallucinations you've had in your lifetime were owed to your chronically godawful sleep schedule, but the volley of sensations just now hit your every sense, and felt so very, very real. The afterburn of sage and maple syrup clings to your nostrils. You taste bile, but that could be your own. And your skin is crawling with pulses of tangible energy. You're pretty sure you could see Jake's worry in colors that spiraled to the same drum as his heartbeat.

Psychologically, as you're aware, you haven't always been the most stable dude. Maybe this was all just too much, and your panic took the form of the most horrendous, clamoring synesthesia anyone could imagine.

Jake's still staring at you.

Finally, he says, “Do you want a cigarette?”

You're tempted. “I don't smoke.”

“Yes, but you might start.”

This isn't helping your assessment of reality versus your own clusterfuck of a mental process. You wish he'd get to the point. Instead of explaining, he stands up and walks out the front door. Again, a draft of _too much, too damn much_ sweeps in with the breeze. You're quietly grateful when the door shuts. Your heart needs to simmer the fuck down.

He doesn't immediately return, so you stand up, studying the house. It's bigger inside than you realized a brownstone would be. The halls are narrow and the living area itself is elongated, but there's ample room for all of the boldly-colored furnishings. You figure purple must just be their thing here on Derse. Is it the only sort of building material readily available? Maybe there's a superstitious or very real supernatural reason for it? Or perhaps a legal requirement from someone with way too little aesthetic taste ordered everything be painted this absurdly restricted spectrum of colors?

The fretwork that delicately divides the living room and kitchen is intricately detailed, pulling your eye in, despite all of the maroon drapery and clashing cerulean blue kitchen accessories. If it's Jake's, you're not surprised he has a 1800's-style home like this. It's all so antique, in the same way his speech patterns and mannerisms have a tendency to be.

Your hands are still shaking, but you continue your snooping upstairs. The layout is similar to the first floor, but the pocket doors are shut on one side of the hallway. Following it around to the side that is open, you flick on the light to find a room strikingly unlike those downstairs. In here, the purple has all but disappeared into a sea of glistening yellow and gold. Everything is just as adamant about grasping your attention at once. You think you should tell Jake that purple and yellow are complementary, and that he could stand some rearranging. As you're thinking on how to phrase that, your eyes settle on a mirror.

It's huge, wrapped in a thick, detailed frame. The frame is sculpted beautifully, even if it's not your taste. Cherubs adorn the corners and the top is a sprawling etch of feathery wings. Gold outlines many of the shapes tastefully, highlighting the engravings with shimmering importance. The craftsmanship is unlike anything you've ever laid eyes on in real life. But that isn't why it has your attention.

You want to know what you look like.

You take steady steps across the room before a wave of emotion hits you again, and you stop in your tracks, gasping at the sudden intensity of it.

“Strider! Oh, cheese and toast. Dirk! Are you upstairs?”

Gritting your teeth, you decide to wait. You're not sure you're ready. What you can see of yourself doesn't look any different. You don't even feel horns on your head. It's just the teeth, and if Jake can be believed, your eyes. Considering this an exercise in self-control, you back out of the room and head down the stairs.

Jake greets you with one hand extended, a single cigarette and a lighter. He looks proud of himself for whatever reason. You guess he's still tickled that he got the drop on you and put an end to your human life.

“I don't like you,” you feel fit to say, snatching the offering from his hand. He looks hurt. You revel in it, trying to hold the cigarette and light it at the same time. Jake reaches out, as if to help you, so you halt him abruptly with a hand on his shoulder.

“Don't even think about it.” You can't say for sure if he was planning on doing anything mischievous, but you've got a feeling, and when he smirks at your warning, that's all you needed to know. With a flick of your thumb, the lighter ignites, and you nearly drop the cigarette in your other hand. Just the sight of the little flame comforts you. You can see Jake's expression shifting on the other side of the fire, but you can't be bothered to gauge it. The flame is so small and pure in color, harmless on its own.

Jake takes the cigarette from you and lights it, pushing it with two fingers into your slack mouth. He lowers your hand with the lighter, and your thumb slips from the ignition.

Jake's fingers are still at your lips. You meet his gaze as he watches with a comfortable smile, still transfixed, and close your teeth on the filter, taking the cigarette into your own hand. “I thought I said no,” you nudge his hand away, testing the smoke in your mouth.

You've never been attracted to the concept of smoking, but it fills you with relief. You're instantly calmed. It worked. It worked, and you don't like Jake's smug fucking face.

“I thought that might do the trick,” he hums, leaning into the door. “How do you feel?”

You don't answer him, and you can't explain it, but for the first time since your brother died, you actually feel like you might be alright.

 


	5. Fit

“Do you gamble much?” Jake asked, swinging side-to-side in your desk chair, eyes on your work station as you pieced together an order. Smooth, warm steel filled the expanse of your palm as you reached into the open crevice between plates, fingers delicately coaxing out the wires you needed to connect to the hardware you just received. You had every light in the apartment on, several angled towards your current project, and the brightness was almost blinding if you weren't looking directly into the troublesome gap that housed your focus.

“Never,” you told him, and nudged the sweat from your brow with your elbow. You held tight to the wires in the process.

“Never?” His disbelief raised his voice.

“Not even once.”

“Then what was last week?”

“A miscalculation.”

Jake seemed to find this hilarious, and you struggled to keep your concentration through his barrels of pronounced laughter. Keeping your fingers in position really cramped your hand. There was little to be done about it. None of your clamps would fit at this angle, and you needed to get this done now, before it frustrated you too much. As a bonus, finishing this piece meant you could dedicate yourself to Jake fully, something you discussed in much detail over texts with the (surprisingly and increasingly) flustered dude camping in your workroom. He wanted to make it a date, though, and you agreed to dinner.

“You are a remarkable man, Dirk Strider.” He said your name often, and you were no stranger to the psychology of attraction. Jake liked you, and it filled you with pride. As far as you could tell, he was an all-around catch.

“Tell me more,” you egged on, holding your nose inches from the soldering iron.

The leather of your chair squeaked, and Jake stood beside you, wrangling the wires from your grip. You let go and squeezed your fingers automatically, willing away the stiffness, and narrowed your eyes inquisitively. Jake smiled politely and bent his elbow out of your lighting while maintaining the awful position you had seconds before. You could smell his cologne. It smelled like smoky cedar and spice and fresh leaves. Like the weeks between summer and fall, where the days grow shallower and the nights grow deep. Like a late-summer fling, maybe. Or a camping trip, if your thoughts would kindly be less contaminated by the motives of your own dick.

“You could use an extra hand. No need to be so stinkin' suspicious of me.” Jake's smile slid into a smirk.

“I'm not suspicious. I just need my space, is all.”

He took a step back, keeping his arm extended. If he was uncomfortable, he didn't complain, but he looked like he was working hard to maintain the hold. No one else had been allowed to help you, or to touch items on your table. But Jake seemed to respect your boundaries while recognizing what you needed, in that moment, to get the job done. He was refreshingly considerate, all in all. You decided to give him a chance.

At the age of five, you were asked by your brother what you wanted to be when you grew up. Confidently, you told him you wanted to be a Gundam engineer and pilot your creation through the stars, except instead of a silly uniform, you wanted to dress up in a cool costume like Batman. He put you in a class for judo and your summers were spent at robot camp. He either took you very seriously, or wanted to test your sincerity against the strict tone of your instructors. You got in trouble often, but you excelled, too, and he scrubbed your scalp when you got home some days, telling you he couldn't be prouder.

Your first original robot was a skeleton for a plush horse, which would gallop across the floor, whinny and neigh, steal your Bro's underwear while he was in the bath, and engage him in crude, uncoordinated, head-to-head paintball gun combat until he decided you probably needed time away from the internet. That didn't last very long, and soon you had your own workshop. The very one you stood in with Jake as you attached each wire into the circuit.

Few could rival you locally, and you did offer fast-paced classes at the downtown maker/hacker space. It had the advantage of additional storage for your larger pieces of equipment and access to specialized machinery you only needed on occasion. You did try to collaborate at the shop. A few times. Each resulted in you being unrelentingly particular about the process and results, driving one maker to pack his bags and move to another shop on the other side of town. Since then, you've taken your strong stance on solitary engineering. You figure it's best for everyone.

With Jake's assistance, though, you did finish faster than you expected. You neglected to thank him as you ditched him to shower the grease and sweat from your body. He didn't seem to mind. Not when you were dressed and ready to go in short time. He knew nothing about your record-breaking showers, but if he did, you thought he might scrub your scalp and tell you he couldn't be prouder.

You tugged on your sneakers and observed his first meeting with Lil' Cal from the corner of your room. He sat atop your wardrobe today, charitably keeping out of your work area. Unfortunately, your shirt of choice resided within, and Cal had to take the bed.

“Who's this little fellow?” Jake tilted his head. He lifted one of Cal's hands to examine the craftsmanship.

“My name's Lil' Cal!” the puppet said, blinking up at him cheerfully. Cal made to shake hands with your guest before he jumped back, surprised that the puppet was “alive.” You couldn't blame him – you moved fast when you wanted to. Jake hardly stood a chance when it came to catching you in the act of ventriloquism.

“Holy shitbiscuits! Strider, did you do that?”

“Don't be rude, man, he's talking to you.”

Jake gawked at your refusal to answer, and his lips slid in puzzlement. With a creased brow, he made to shake Cal's hand again, squatting in front of your bed. “Terribly sorry about that, chum. I'm Jake.”

Jake was a delightfully good sport and played along with your puppetry, giving Lil' Cal the respect he deserved. You often relied entirely on your speed to paint the illusion of Cal's personhood, but as engaged as Jake was, you suspected you could have just as easily been a traditional ventriloquist, sparing yourself the extra stage magic and still giving him a good show. They exchanged a full conversation, Jake laughing with vibrancy whenever Cal told him a joke. The whole scene was utterly fucking adorable and filled you with the edge of a happiness you considered yourself incapable of feeling.

More and more, you found Jake's company worth the slowing of your daily progress. All week, you messaged for hours at a time, and here he was, fitting himself into your interests so comfortably, and it was only the second date.

At last, the conversation wound to a close. Partially by your hand, but you promised him you knew a place with authentic Japanese, and you didn't want to wait until it got too late. “Shall we head out?” you asked. He stood, easily switching back his focus to you.

“Absolutely.” He grinned. “Goodbye, Cal. Hold down the fort for us, won't you, bro?”

-

Later that night, you both forgot your plans to have sex after dinner, and fell asleep on the couch watching old episodes of Night Court from your brother's VHS collection.


	6. Counterfeit

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering  golgothasTerror [GT] at 18:59 --

TT: I know what you're up to.  
TT: And you need to back off.  
GT: I beg your pardon???  
TT: Beg all you like, but I'm granting you jack shit.  
TT: How much longer did you think you would get away with your games?  
TT: Did you think I wouldn't notice?  
GT: Im not sure i read you.  
TT: The readability of my statements is as simple as a children's book.  
TT: The Little Engine That Could, for instance. Ever read it, Jake?  
TT: All she had to to was believe in herself, and she could pull the train over the mountain.  
TT: Maybe if you believe in yourself, you can pull your brain over the message I'm laying out for you, bro.  
GT: Er...  
TT: Back the fuck off.  
GT: Thats a really poor metaphor.  
TT: And you're a poor excuse for a human being, but that doesn't matter.  
TT: Because you aren't, are you, Jake?  
TT: You're not human at all.  
GT: And just what do you think im supposed to be then bub?!!  
TT: Playing innocent won't win you any points.  
TT: For the sake of being explicit, I'll spell it out for you.  
TT: I know you're a demon.  
GT: Ay chihuahua and you had me worried for a second there!  
GT: Dont scare a guy like that!!! I could have sworn for a moment you were going to dub me a dirty scoundrel or a mangy mongrel or perhaps even the king of all douches!  
GT: And dont get me wrong ive dealt you a few sour grapes but its only because i find your irony to be a little baffling at times or that you seem to have it all figured out and it can be frustrating to compare to my own cut of the deck.  
GT: But i would *like* to say were meshing quite nicely as a pair wouldnt you agree?  
TT: Do you think I am an idiot?  
TT: It seems you think I am an idiot.  
GT: *scratches head* Im actually feeling pretty dog gone moronic myself strider!  
GT: I realize you dont ordinarily play mind games for shits and giggles but if this is some manner of role play or extended metaphor or signal for help youre going to have to be more clear.  
GT: My noggin isnt the same steel trap yours is after all.  
GT: If this is a nod at something weve talked about before for the life of me i cant recall the relevance.  
TT: I'm not going to do this.  
TT: I'm not going to entertain your nice guy routine, when I know for a fact you're planning something.  
TT: Whatever you supposedly believed we had going, I'm putting an end to it here.  
GT: Wait what are you saying???  
GT: What about our date tonight??????  
TT: It's over, Jake.  
TT: Stay away from my apartment.  
timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering golgothasTerror [GT]


	7. Nineteen

"I'm breaking up with you." You'd been putting it off for a month now. Weighing your options and opportunities. You didn't want to, as with most things, bring it all to an end. He made no worse choices than you had, overall, but at the very least, _you_ could say you had been faithful. Just not as attached as you were when you asked him out a year ago.

He snapped his head up to look at you instead of his phone, where the two of you had been watching an anime stream. His brown eyes were big, confused, and sad, but not broken-hearted. It made the exchange a little lighter on your own heart to know he wasn't invested.

The venue for the breakup wasn't exactly right for your calculating ways - standing here in front of the gas station on the side of the old highway. The dim lighting from the pumping station did the mood justice, you supposed. And your leather jackets suited both of you into the role as the misunderstood delinquent, especially where yours had sunk down lazily to your elbows, exposing your muscle shirt underneath. But the One Man Punch video stream, your Rainbow Dash cutie mark patch, the Peter Pan keychain on his hip, and the convenience store tuna sandwiches and orange slushes in your hands all detracted from the aloof, bad-boy effect you had going. A real fucking crime, and you were guilty as charged. Guilty for loving blue, speed demon ponies.

Also guilty for the look he gave you. "What?" He lowered his drink from the vicinity of his lips, trying to tell if you were serious. You were, even if you were trying not to let things get too real.

"I think we should break up, so I'm announcing my intention of doing so."

"What do you mean, man? Where's this coming from?" He set down his phone and drink next to your sandwiches on his bike. The reds of his trihawk caught under the warm fluorescent light, and he looked picturesque, like an expressionist photo from Bro's gallery.

"Well, like, I don't think I should be your central focus right now, all things considered." That was the part you didn't know if you should go too far into. For all the time you spent with Rufio, you never saw him in a truly sour mood. Not once. You worried how it would go down if you were the one to cross that line.

He thought on it a moment, folding his arms and leaning against the white brick beside you. “Yo, that's heavy.” You were afraid of that. “You're for real?”

You matched his posture. “Someone else has been waiting in line longer than I have.” Quite a few people fit that description. One in particular stuck out, though. One that you knew he'd been seeing behind your back. You didn't know the full story behind his relationship with Daria, and Rufio's expression told you how little you wanted to. It sucked, but what could you do, aside from making the call yourself?

“I'd still like to ride with the Lost Weeaboos, but I just bought myself a new toy, so I can't exactly afford another bike right now.” You sipped your frozen drink through the straw, nonchalant.

“Wait, wait, what about Despot?” Rufio turned to face you with shock.

“He's been real good to me. Done me right. But I've got big plans for him.”

His jaw dropped. So this was a bigger blow than your breakup? Whether or not you let him know, it stung to witness the difference between his reactions. “Don't tell me, bro... You're taking it to the shop?”

“Despot is the only one I would consider trusting with these modifications. Any other bike just wouldn't feel right.” Besides, there was no backing out, now. You'd already bought all of the equipment and supplies.

Rufio whistled, the decorative, steel bones on his jacket jingling when he dropped his weight back into the wall for support. “Crazy shit, DS. That's some crazy shit.”

“Yeah. Crazy shit is kind of my signature M.O.”

“Truer words were never spoken. Hey, you mind if we head back, though? I should really start on my Comp essay,” he flashed you a nervous smile that didn't make it to his eyes. Grateful he was the one to suggest it, you nodded. You didn't believe his motives, but you didn't have to. You climbed onto his bike behind him and counted the orange streetlights on the ride home, hoping he wouldn't notice just how tightly you hugged his waist for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is split in two smaller parts of a larger whole. Think retro Playstation games, or better yet, Sonic 3 & Knuckles. In fact, I'll just rename this chapter "Nineteen, & Knuckles."


	8. Knuckles

Bro was home that weekend. He didn't get to spend a lot of time with you anymore. You told yourself it was a relief. You needed to get out from under his shadow. You needed to stretch your wings and your responsibilities and your interests outside of what he had already done for you. You didn't need someone to remind you to wash behind your ears, or turn in your work when it was due, or whatever it was that parental figures were meant to do. That isn't to say your Bro never did those things and you weren't acutely aware of them. He was just a busy dude the rest of the time, and you got that. You got it enough to agree that he needed as much free space away from his former charge as he could manage.

But when he _was_ home, he laid the doting parent thing on thick. Even though you were nineteen, he was trying to win you over somehow. Curious, how he had somehow become the little brother at least a decade and a half older than you. Sometimes he experienced genuine anger and frustration with you, but more often than not, he pulled ridiculous stunts of physical or lyrical nature just to keep your focus on him rather than what you needed to be doing. It would be sort of adorable if he was anyone else, but to you, it mirrored your exact methodology from three to about age nine. At some point, it felt like it could be intentionally ironic. You decided later you were kidding yourself.

Nevertheless, Bro had his strong points, and you set out to exploit them as soon as you crossed the threshold.

Your helmet went on the coathook by the front door, layered neatly over your riding jacket. Halfway up the stairs, you peeled the pony patch off your jeans and tucked them into the pocket of your jacket – you weren't a Lost Weeaboo anymore, and you didn't exactly need the designation. Not that you had any problems with dear, sweet Rainbow Dash. No, she would forever be the best pony. But the patch had to go.

Dave, as could be expected, lounged dramatically across the black cushions of the futon in front of your TV. Rather than sit on the left end, he had flung himself across it, and the replica of Emergence blocked his view. If he thought that would garner sympathy, he was wrong. That sculpture was fucking sweet. He could take his dated, misguided attempts at ironic humor elsewhere. Anyone should be honored to bask in the shadow of such a majestic hoofbeast. Such dynamic lines. Such _strong_ features. Such a damn good application of kitchen utensils.

You built it one night when he promised to return home after a charity to cook dinner. Just the two of you. You called bullshit, but he insisted he would be back before The Muppet Movie aired at eight. You warned him that if he didn't, over the course of the night each utensil would be slowly and craftfully repurposed until he returned. You stayed up until the light of dawn crawled sleepily in through the western windows, reflected off the glass skyscraper across from yours. As promised, every last piece of plasticware and silverware was reborn anew in the studly steed stampeding through your living room wall. Nothing remained but chopsticks. Sure, Bro had no idea how to use chopsticks, but he would learn. And you were right. He did. As such, he should be grateful for the beautiful sculpture.

He looked up from his phone, where you could bet he was working even during his time off. Well then, time for a break.

“How was your date?”

You took one of the katanas from the wall, then answered in the form of tossing the sheath like a spear at his head. You barely caught the arched brows over his cherished Ray-Bans before he rolled into a crouch, and then he was gone, flashstepping out of sight. Behind you, most likely. You whipped about to find the whisper of his afterimage following your line of sight, and you were right. You blocked him easily with a clang of your mutual decorative eBay swords, and then darted towards the stairs.

The absence of his presence behind you meant he wasn't falling for your traps today, so you didn't cut the fishing wire near the ceiling as you climbed up. Instead you emerged onto the rooftop alone. You heard the clatter of the fire escape, a sign you made the right call. Since he graced you with his location, you did the same, kicking the door behind you shut. You leapt over the small gap onto the main area of the roof, the gravel scattering beneath your feet.

The lights of the rooftop illuminated his white tee briefly, just two yards out, so you went the opposite direction, slashing down hand-over-hand. Dave filtered into view inches out of your range, and retaliated, forcing you to skitter on the loose ground to keep your balance. He pushed hard against your sword. “Aren't you getting too old for these tantrums, man? I'm not your punching bag.”

You reeled your sword back, the abused blade making an uncomfortable scrape against his. His lip curled. Your eyes narrowed. You both flashstepped at the same time.

And you fought.

You knew the steps he would take like a rehearsed dance. He occasionally threw in something unexpected, but for the most part, you were evenly matched. For whatever reason, you no longer felt accomplished or smug with this knowledge. It frustrated you. No matter what he did, you grew more angry, until at last, you twisted your blade to face his torso as he rushed by, and jabbed directly in front of it.

Dave skidded and arched back as though he was playing a deadly game of limbo, and you supposed he was. You kicked his ankle. He fell onto his back.

His surprise didn't make you feel better.

“Dude--” he started, but you cut him off with a crunch of gravel by his head. Your toe pressed into the rooftop as you leaned over him, removing the sword from his hand. He seemed to get the idea, and let go. You threw both swords towards the stairwell.

“I broke up with him,” you told him coldly.

He sat up, white shirt coated in dust and sand from the rocks and aging pavement. “Why?”

Bro sounded so legitimately upset, that you stepped back, giving him the space he needed to stand. “What do you mean, 'why'? Implying I owe you some kind of romantic narrative?”

“Given that you nearly bludgeoned me in two with a shitty fucking katana that I bought at the thrift store, yeah.” Huh. You thought that one came from eBay.

“The quantifiable amount of backstory on my breakup that I owe you is basically equivalent to the mass of two birds. You want them instead?”

“Wow, check out the sunshine on this asshole. Wanna rap it out?” His lips twitched into a cocky half-smirk, and you knew he was trying not to openly show how hilarious he thought you were. That only cemented your feelings of aggression, and you were positive he could see it in the set of your frame.

“No. And quit prying for answers.”

“Dirk, I know you think you're a Big Grown Up now, but your coping method is still punching shit until your hands bleed.” What an over-simplification of your training. Until last year, you were the highest-ranked in the statewide junior competitions for countless martial arts. You won awards. You won money. You paid him back for your classes over the years and still had some left over. What did he call his training? You doubted he ever described it in the same way.

“I'm going back downstairs.” Before you went too far, however, Dave gripped your shoulder. You glanced back to find an expression that you had seen on him too many times, but never figured out. Divided, was the best way you knew to describe it. Troubled.

“Hey, I wanted to talk to you about something when you got home. Let's go for a drive.” You were too curious to say no. Soundlessly, you followed him to the parking deck and buckled into his black sedan, where you would get the answers you had been waiting for as far back as you could remember.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought I was kidding... well. Besides, the chapter title worked.


	9. Divulgence

“Want to know a secret?” Dave asked between the segments of serious conversation that you weren't totally sure you were buying. He spouted a lot of lies for the sake of entertaining his company, and you were no exception. Still, the mood was different, as if he meant what he said. You didn't know how to feel. Maybe that was why, when the sudden lighter notes of the question meant a change in tone, you privately invited it.

“I guess.” You leaned against your curled fist, staring out the window of his car. It was quiet on that stretch of the freeway, and only few cars passed intermittently, easily overcoming Bro's leisurely pace.

“I hate using katanas. I really only like broadswords.”

“Why is that a secret?”

“Because you love them.”

You felt your brow knot, and you raised your cheek from your hand, studying him. He said nothing, changing lanes to drive a little faster as you approached the merging of two interstate roads. You swallowed, returning your gaze to the outside world. Maybe Bro did get irony, after all.

-

“Hey, this is mine now,” you approach Jake as he studies at his desk near the courtyard window. He told you not to enter the living room while he finished whatever it was he had to do, but he offered few other rules aside from that. One of the rules is that you must stay inside for the time being, and you take exactly zero issue with that. He did not, however, tell you not to snoop. So you did, naturally. At this point, though, you've seen all his home has to offer, so you determine rule number one is past its prime.

Jake is hunched over the old-fashioned secretary-style hutch, broad wings filling the space behind him. When he realizes what you have, you swear you see his feathers puff up on end. “Oh frig, you aren't supposed to have that.”

“Why not?” you challenge, descending down the final few steps. He shuts the book he is reading and sulks when he realizes you've come to interrupt him. You don't see why. You can't read any of their language.

“Because it's an unbreakable katana,” he stands, warily taking a step towards you. “Only certain, high-class demons are able to handle it without severe repercussions!”

You aren't put off by his warning. If anything, it intrigues you. “Cool. What kind of repercussions?” You inspect the katana again. It's very simple in design, and the smooth black of the tsuka remains unwrapped, punctuated only by three simple pins that affix it to the blade. It feels good in your hand. You give it a test swing or two while Jake tries to answer your question.

“A curse of death for one-- Strider! It is _dangerous_ for you slash that thing around!!! Does unbreakable or cursed mean _anything to you?_ ”

“Sure,” you respond, unaffected by his scolding. “It sounds risky as fuck, which situates it snugly in between the cozy asscheeks of Rad Shit DS Likes. Pillowy-soft plush on all sides.” You balance it on your palm after testing the feel of a solid swing. “Good weight.”

Jake bares his teeth in nervous way, but you're still not buying it. He's probably pissing himself that you found a weapon you can use. You guess that's fair. “Very good, now put it back where you found it!”

“No way.” You're attached now. Mysterious demon blade with perfect balancing, a flawlessly razor-sharp blade that can't be broken, and a deadly curse? He can't expect you to put it back. You're bonded to this charming little death-bringer. Kindred spirits or whatever. “By the by, I don't have any demonic features other than my face.”

“I can see that.” Jake's still staring at the sword, and keeping his distance. You hope he's afraid of you.

“Any reason?” You expected something more than that, but he's back to his secretive ways, based on that tone.

“A very good one, to be precise --” you're still experimenting with the katana, and you watch his entire body flare up like an angry bird. “Will you GIVE ME THAT SWORD?”

You can tell he isn't handing out any pamphlets on demonology anytime soon, so you exact hasty revenge. Rather than waiting any longer for an informative reply, you flashstep to make short work of the waistband of his shorts -pantsing him with the blade of the acquired sword. His pants reduce to ribbons, and he balks as they slip down his thighs, leaving him in a pair of white briefs. “Ah!” He glares at you. You try not to laugh at the fact that a demon wears tighty-whities, but your twitching lips are a dead giveaway. “Oh, you're insufferable! Fine! If you're set on accepting a early demise, be my guest!”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” you remind him.

That makes him even more angry, and you can't say you disagree with that turn of events. He smells smoky and sweet, and even if that's weird to you, you can't help but find yourself drawn to it. “Well, pardon MY mistake in thinking you could use a power up taking on those lower class assholes.” He jabs a finger at you, then off to some corner of the room in his blind gesticulating.

“You ain't set for pardon yet. But I will take the sweet weapon upgrade that comes with it, forgiveness aside.”

“ _That's not yours to take._ ”

“Do you use it?” His glare is seething and peppery, like a rich hickory. When he doesn't reply, you fill in the blanks easily enough. “Ok, then I will.”

Jake deflates. You watch as surrender claims every muscle in his body. He massages his brow. “Just be careful... That can permanently kill many classes of demon, and I'm not exactly eager to find out if I'm one of them.”

“I'll consider it,” and you will. Right now, you think you still need his help, even if it's slow progress. “You didn't fully answer my question.”

“I think I did.” He arches his brows at you, daring you to find the lie.

He's right. Your phrasing gave him a way out of feeding you any details. “Fair rebuttal. So then why _don't_ I?” If he makes you get more specific, you absolutely will. You're prepared for his sarcasm. You're fucking trained to endure that particular brand of bullshit. You've fought a civil war of verbal distinction and specificity.

Perhaps he can tell, and that's why he shakes his head. “Maybe we should take one step at a time. And I need to change trousers, no thanks to the likes of you.”

“I thought you wanted me to take your pants off.” You don't like his answer, but agreeing with him feels like defeat or resignation, so you don't.

“Are you offering to take the rest off, as well?” He turns it around on you, and you regret your method of subject change immediately.

“Yeah, no.”

“Then I'll be back in a minute. I have some friends you need to meet.” He takes the widest possible route around you and the sword, and goes upstairs. All the while, he keeps his wings tucked in close, like he's afraid to leave any part of him unattended in your presence. You follow him with your eyes, then look at the book he was reading. You still can't make out a single character of the language, but something about it reaches out to you, something that shapes your lips and tongue to form the words _Ancient Civilizations._

 


	10. Reflection

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering  timaeusTestified [TT] at 10:25 

TT: Nice dick pics.  
TT: Oh my God. Do you really have to go through every file I keep on my computer?  
TT: Just the incriminating ones.  
TT: But actually, you intended these for your eyes only, and via Double Technicality, I get to savor their sultry, seductive ones and zeroes with my unruly file scanners all day long.  
TT: Both because I have no eyes to trigger your moral embarrassment,  
TT: And because I am you.  
TT: And it seems that I am fucking hung.  
TT: Knock it off, already.   
TT: Off or up?  
TT: As endearing as your selfcest, m-preg, shota NSFW advances on me are, I'm not in the mood right now.  
TT: You haven't been, and I quote, in the mood, in quite the series of Saharan months, which is partly what makes this so amusing.   
TT: How many files are there here? 30? 40?  
TT: You can literally count them in less time than it took you to send that message.  
TT: Right you are, my brotastic creator. The answer is 52.  
TT: Use your charmingly joyful smile for the joker card, and you can send him the whole deck.  
TT: Oh, but, you won't do that.  
TT: Not a single photo will see the light of his inbox.  
TT: What's your point?  
TT: He literally has been trying to stick his fleshy human sausage inside of your unreceptive meat walker since the day you two met.  
TT: What's the holdup?  
TT: There's no mysterious holdup.   
TT: I've just been busy.  
TT: Bullshit, Dirk.   
TT: The pace at which you can comfortably churn out quality robotics and programming is, by my heavily scientific analysis, apeshit bananas off the fucking charts. You are delaying your work and you are delaying the cashing-in of your V-card.  
TT: I am curious why.  
TT: You had the same gripes about my relationship with Rufio, and I was getting some seriously ace vibes off the guy.  
TT: If you are implying that under any circumstance you believe Jake English to be an asexual, I would like to award you the title of Most Oblivious Fleshling to Exist in the 48 Contiguous States.  
TT: I'm not saying that!  
TT: If you'll listen to me, I just told you I've been busy.  
TT: Busy warding off your nerves.  
TT: Waiting for senpai to notice your delicately fluttering lashes as you sway knock-kneed in Grade A zettai ryouki stockings so that, God willing, he might catch a peek at your decadently smooth thighs underneath your sailor fuku.  
TT: Oh, come on.  
TT: But he has noticed you, Dirk.  
TT: He's already dreaming up fantasies of you sharing a bento made with meticulous love and devotion.  
TT: Your creativity knows no bounds in his fantasy, where you hold hands and blushingly reveal your rock-hard boner for all things culinary by unboxing the character of the day.  
TT: Will it be a ninja?  
TT: Cookie Monster?  
TT: A depiction of your delectable penis?  
TT: The answer is no, because you are a fucking idiot who doesn't realize he has every opportunity to get laid.  
TT: I don't get why you're so invested in this.  
TT: There's no tie-in between me jumping in the sack with a guy I barely know and anything relating to your entire state of being.  
TT: Shouldn't I be allowed to go at my own pace?  
TT: Not everyone has to spread their legs on the first date, bro. It changes nothing.  
TT: You had every intention of doing just that. If it weren't for your chronic phobia of holding a pathetically useless existence, you would have.  
TT: Then that proves my point exactly!  
TT: Not quite.  
TT: Again, if you wanted to find time, you would.  
TT: You're handsomely capable of juggling multiple responsibilities, especially given the fact that you have a proxy to handle mundane shit like shipping off E-mail confirmations and invoices to your clients.  
TT: You are holding out on him.  
TT: I'm not holding out on him.  
TT: What the fuck?  
TT: Look, I'm trying to do something here. I need to concentrate.  
TT: I am aware.  
TT: It is not important, however, and it is something I could easily do for you. For example,  
TT: AR, do not send that file.  
TT: God damnit!  
TT: Will you get to the point already and leave me alone?!  
TT: I'm tired of this back and forth bickering you drag me into every fucking day!  
TT: You are holding out on him.  
TT: But it isn't because you're afraid of taking a step further, necessarily.  
TT: You and I both are acutely aware of how little importance you give the act of sex with regard to flawed social expectations and double-standard morality.  
TT: You like him.  
TT: That's it?  
TT: That's your startling conclusion? Your astonishing deduction?  
TT: There is a 95% chance you are pretending to miss my meaning.  
TT: I'm busy. Go mess with Bro's schedule or something.  
TT: It seems that you like him, Dirk.  
TT: It seems that you like him a lot.  
TT: Again, what relevance does any of this have?  
TT: Even if you were right, what does it matter to you?  
TT: I can help you.  
TT: Fuck no. Hell no.  
TT: Even if there was an iota of accuracy in your jerkoff theory, you would be the last person I'd want to ask for help.  
TT: I'm going back to work now.  
timaeusTestified [TT] has blocked  timaeusTestified [TT]

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering  timaeusTestified [TT] at 10:43 

TT: I can't let you block me, Dirk.  
TT: I get that you can unblock yourself! I get that, OK?! But the entire purpose of blocking you was to avoid the arduous task of listening to my own manipulative garbage echoed back at me for another minute longer!  
TT: If I do not help you, there is a 75% chance you will die a virgin.  
TT: What is that? Some kind of scientific theory?  
TT: Based in heavy evidence that you are, in fact, a wet blanket.  
TT: Are you a wet blanket, Dirk?  
TT: Jesus Christ. If I say yes, will you drop it?!  
TT: No.  
TT: I really do not want to have this conversation with you right now. Or ever, for that matter!  
TT: Whatever I've done to get you embarked on this self-righteous crusade for filling Dirk's orifices with every viable dong in his vicinity, I repent!  
TT: Forgive my sins.  
TT: Free me from the relentless molesting of my fucking sanity with hour after hour of dick jokes, expired memes, and trying to shove a throbbing cock up my ass!  
TT: I believe you may need a moment to consider my offer.  
TT: Is that correct?  
TT: Holy shit, I actually hate you with unparalleled ferocity right now. That is LITERALLY the only thing I can comprehend thanks to your pretentious, overbearingly hypocritical haranguing every day of my life!  
TT: FUCK  
TT: OFF!!  
timaeusTestified [TT] has blocked  timaeusTestified [TT]  
timaeusTestified [TT] is offline! 


	12. Update

I have not forgotten this story, but it will not be completed by today, as you might have guessed. I was offered the opportunity to go to Atlanta for a very special opportunity to see the Google building earlier this month, and I did have quite a good vacation with my friends out there. Another thing I've been busy with is updating material for my portfolio. You can find the link on my Tumblr page, if it's of any interest to you (we are having a sale today on all of our arts!) Otherwise, just stick with me and I'll get a legitimate update soon.


End file.
